Sociopathic Freak
by ThePsych-IchPotterhead
Summary: In a burst of accidental magic at fifteen months, Harry apparated himself away from Godric's Hollow that fateful day on Hallow's Eve. Instead, Voldemort marked Neville Longbottom as the Boy-Who-Lived, giving him a scar the shape of a bolt of lightning on his head. Now, Harry, who has grown to be a very bitter fifteen year old. See inside for full summary.


**Summary: In a burst of accidental magic at fifteen months, Harry apparated himself away from Godric's Hollow that fateful day on Hallow's Eve, leaving behind mourning parents and a stunned Voldemort, who, instead, marked Neville Longbottom as the Boy-Who-Lived, giving him a scar the shape of a bolt of lightning on his head. Now, Harry, who has grown to be a very bitter fifteen year old, cooped up in an orphanage, is embarking on a journey he thought to only be a fantasy: He, Harry Potter, is going to learn how to be a proper wizard. But not the way you might expect**

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The Boy No One Loved

Harry Potter was not a normal boy. No, he was an orphan, which was enough to make onlookers turn their heads in disgust in the opposite direction because Harry was one of the only older children residing at the fading old orphanage by the sea, and if you grew to be old in the orphanage it simply meant that no one wanted you, and therefore, you were worse than vermin. But Harry Potter was different in more ways than one, you see, Harry had a history of making bad things happen to people who angered him. Once, a boy had died 'in his sleep' the night after he had killed a snake that Harry had befriended when he was only ten.

No one had bothered him after that, even if he _was _a sociopathic freak that talked to snakes, or, at least, that's what one girl, Suzie Frost, had said after he'd made her 'trip' down the stairs after stealing one of his prized books.

He privately thought to himself that these people weren't worth his anger, weren't worth his hate. They weren't _special _like him, so therefore they should be beneath him like the anthill under a boot.

All in all, through all the years of abuse from nursemaids, crazy nuns and pastors trying to 'stamp the evil out of him', Harry had slowly turned into what could be only described as a sociopath, and could only mimic emotions, not actually feel them. Most of the time, he was just a cold, shell of a boy who had no purpose in the world.

Unless he was experiencing the only emotion he _could _feel.

Hatred.

The burning, overwhelming fire that burned deep within his soul, which fed a thirst for blood and a lust for battle, and a sadistic urge to kill, to feel flesh behind his nails, feel blood running down his hands as he triumphantly held the mangled body up to the moonlight.

It was the moments like these that made people fear Harry, so most people left him alone. He was an orphan, after all, and a strange orphan, at that, who had been returned to the care of his abusers every time someone adopted him because he was a 'freak of nature'.

Though, naturally, there were a few, foolish youngsters who had the gall to taunt him, make fun of him, spit in his direction and treat him like the bottom of their shoes.

Naturally, they didn't live much longer after that.

So, Harry had a reputation of being the 'demon boy', and though he excelled in all of his classes at public schooling, the teachers almost never graded his work and just passed him because they were afraid of him. He recollected fondly that it was wonderful, though he didn't get much out of the classes, anyways, he was much too advanced for that.

So, Harry spent most of his time alone, conversing with the snakes of the forest and plotting the demise of all of those who had dishonored him, made him feel like vermin. One snake, in particular, who called himself 'Maximus', was his constant companion, and normally resided under Harry's shirt coiled around his arm or waist. Maximus was a medium-sized snake, a deep emerald green in color with black eyes, fangs that glistened like snow in the sun, and poison that could kill you in three seconds fast.

Yes, he was quite the appropriate comrade for Harry, and tempted out hidden emotions buried so deep in Harry, that, for a while, Harry would feel the flicker of the ghostly emotion of _joy _or _friendship_, but Maximus was perfectly happy with his human being cold, sadistic, and sarcastic. In fact, he would even say that that was what had drawn him to the boy in the first place.

Then one night, Hallow's Eve, to be exact, fifteen-year-old Harry was outside with his snake when the orphanage suddenly erupted into flames.

To say it pleased him was an understatement, he was _ecstatic_, and couldn't help but whoop with joy at the scent of rotting building, and rotting flesh from the trapped, _unspecial_, people inside. He was so pleased, in fact, rolling around in mad laughter, that he hadn't noticed the arrival of the cloaked, masked men, or the tall man with no hair, no lips, slitted nostrils and ruby red eyes (he looked very much like a snake) leading them.

"My dear boy," said the snake-man, as Harry decided to name him. "What of this scene pleases you?"

"They deserve to die, to rot in hell," sneered Harry, blinking twice before continuing. "They treated me like vermin because I was different. Special. Of course, I picked off most of them in their sleep, but nothing could ever be proven, of course, because I had been alone in my room the entire time." The snake-man seemed interested, and the masked followers behind him seemed uneasy.

"Tell me boy, what powers do you possess?"

"Well, I can make people hurt if I want to, if they were bad to me. I've lit my fair share of things on fire, and I can manipulate inanimate things to do my bidding. Then there's the snakes. Oh, the snakes, they find me, talk to me, serve me. It's wonderful, actually."

_§A speaker?§ _hissed the snake-man, and Harry nodded.

_§Yes,§ _he hissed back. _§My snake, Maximus, is my only and constant companion, and he is coiled up, sleeping, on my arm as of the moment. His poison can kill in less than three seconds, believe me, I've tested it.§_

"You are a strange boy," said the snake-man, more to himself than anything. "Much like myself at your age. And like me, you, too, are a sociopath minus hatred, and you lust for battle and blood, and have the sadistic need to kill. My name is Lord Voldemort, and I am the leader of the Dark in the Wizarding War. I will train you, boy, to be my apprentice, my right-hand. Do you accept the position?"

"But of course," sneered Harry, nodding importantly. He'd suspected that wizardry and witchcraft were real, and this man, Lord Voldemort, had just confirmed his suspicions.

"Oh, but one thing before I take you to my Manor, Headquarters," said Voldemort. "I'll need to know your name."

"My name?" asked Harry, smirking. "My name is Harry Potter." That news was enough to make some of the masked men in the back faint, but Voldemort just smirked.

"Oh, this is just so ironic," he muttered to himself. "Very well, Harry Potter, you will aid me in bringing down the light and destroying the old coot Dumbledore and his little pawn, the Boy-Who-Lived, Neville Longbottom."

"And we shall kill all the worthless and despicable scum of the non-magical breed?" asked Harry, shooting a disdainful glance at the still-burning orphanage.

"Would I really be a Dark Lord if we didn't?" asked Voldemort, cocking an eyebrow. Harry stood pensive for a moment before flashing a sadistic smile.

"No, you wouldn't be."

"Now come, Harry, we have much to talk about. Bellatrix! Lucius! Return to the Manor and prepare a room for my new apprentice." For the first time in many years, Harry flashed a genuine smile that wasn't sadistic. He hadn't ever really had reason to smile. Because he'd always been just Harry. The orphan. The sociopathic freak who talked to snake. But above all, he'd been the Boy No One Loved.

§

The Boy Who Lived

Neville Longbottom was a hero, and he fit the description quite nicely. He was tall, well toned, with rippling muscles, bright blue eyes and 'perfect' brown hair. He looked just like the perfect image of a night-in-shining-armor to most of the witches in Britain, and was considered to be the most eligible bachelor _ever_.

After his grandmother had died to save him and he had defeated Voldemort, he'd been put under intense and vigorous training in order to prepare himself for the defeat of Voldemort, and he had glorified in the attention, basked in it's rays and soaked it all up. To say that fame had gotten to his head was an understatement.

Currently, he was about to enter his fifth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where he was a Gryffindor along with his best friends Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. To most people, they were known as the 'Golden Trio'. His years at Hogwarts had hardly been a walk in the park, though.

As a first year, he'd had to rescue the Sorcerer's Stone from Quirrel, who had Voldemort living as a parasite on the back of his head. Second year, he'd been nearly killed on several occasions by a crazy elf by the name of Dobby (Neville suspected he was mad because the Malfoys had given him one to many beatings to the head), and slain a Basilisk all while saving Ron's younger sister, Ginny, from Voldemort. Third year, the notorious and mad Bellatrix Lestrange had broken out from Azkaban and tried to kill him from 'dishonoring her Master', but when the dementors had come she had slipped out of Hogwarts and now was nowhere to be seen.

Then, the top of the cake, fourth year, when the TriWizard Tournament had been held and Neville's name had somehow ended up in the Goblet of Fire, and he had to compete as the fourth champion. Of course, with his amazing skills, he had won, but not before witnessing the death of Cedric Diggory and the gruesome rebirth of Voldemort, who had used some of Neville's own blood to return. Now, the Ministry believed him to be an attention-seeking-hooligan who was making things up to regain the spotlight as he had when he'd defeated Voldemort at sixteen months old.

But Neville knew that he was right, and he knew that one day, one way or another, he would find a way to prove them wrong. He would end up killing Voldemort for good, and then he would finally have all the fame and fortune he deserved, and then they would all be sorry for betraying him, Neville Longbottom, the Boy-Who-Lived.

§

The Family that was Fake

The Potters had once been a jubilant, happy family who wanted nothing more than to live in the moment, which was why James and Lily had married right out of school and had their first child, Harry, at the age of twenty.

Those were days long gone, and Lily and James were now somber adults the age of thirty-five, joined in old age by James' best friends Remus Lupin and Sirius Black, who's pranking days were long gone, and only breifly smiled as James' thirteen year old son, Christopher, or Chris for short, talked aimlessly about his escapades at Hogwarts with his best friend Cane Black, who was Sirius' son.

Christopher and 12-year-old Rosie were the only rays of sunshine in Lily and James' life since the day that Harry had disappeared and never come back. Of course, there were moments when James would forget all of his troubles while messing around with Moony and Padfoot, or listening to Chris talk about all the pranks he'd managed to pull off, or how little Rosie talked on and on about how amazing Neville Longbottom was.

At first, James had only sniggered at his daughter's hero-worship of the Boy-Who-Lived. It had been understandable when she was eight and young, not really understanding the whole depth of the situation. But, as she'd grown, he'd become more and more annoyed with it, because if Voldemort had just chosen Neville in the first place, Harry would have been here, with him, not off God-knows-where.

So, in short, James held nothing but contempt for the Boy-Who-Lived, Dumbledore, who had gotten them in to this whole mess, and even Voldemort, who's fault it had ultimately been because he had been the one to scare Harry into accidentally apparating away. So now, the Potters were no longer Light, nor were they Dark, they were simply neutral, Grey.

But James had had enough dark depressing thoughts for the day. No, he would but on his brave face as usual and pretend like nothing was wrong, and ignore the guilt that threatened to crash over him when he looked at Chris and Rosie and remembered that they didn't even know that they had a brother, since it had been to painful for either Lily or James to mention their long lost son.

They were simply a fake family pretending to be normal.

§

The Boy Who Sulked

Draco Malfoy was an aristocratic prat, like most of the high society purebloods in he wizarding world. He'd always been treated like a prince, like there was nothing more important in the world than him, Draco Malfoy, pureblood playboy with galleons to spare.

That was, of course, changed by the arrival of none other than one Harry Potter, who was the new apple of everyone's eye in the pureblood society, especially those who were Dark, because Harry was the new apprentice of the Dark Lord. Of course, Draco knew that one day he would have to serve Harry, and that's what made him so upset. He was supposed to be king among kings, not some lowly servant. But, if he played his cards right, he'd earn one of the top positions when Voldemort and the newly named Lord Dominus took over the world.

But he had time to worry about planning later. For now, he would just sulk because his father no longer catered to his every whim, and even his house elf Dobby was too busy obsessing over what this could mean to his hero, Neville Longbottom, the Boy-Who-Lived.

It was not a good day for Draco Malfoy.

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**A/N: Okay, so I know that the chapter sorta jumped all over the place, but it was necessary as a preliminary chapter to introduce you to the attitudes of the characters in my lovely story, because it will only add to the plot. Please review, and no flamers, as this is my first attempt at a fanfiction. Update rates may very on how inspired I am and how much classwork I have piled on my schedule. So, until next time!**

**~ThePsych-IchPotterhead**


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